Page 60 of All In

It was a little after three in the afternoon… when Kormia finally stopped vomiting.

Her head was pounding like somebody set up a drum-line inside her skull. She reached for her phone blindly and immediately regretted it. She had missed calls, voice mails and damn near fifty text messages. And that wasn’t even counting her Instagram DMs and TikTok notifications.

Kormia groaned and dropped the phone back onto her chest. All she wanted to do was pull the blackout curtains tighter and try this whole life thing again tomorrow. But she couldn’t. Because she still had one appointment left.Jamillah.Kormia didn’t even know how Jamillah knew she was at the shop, but she’d called while Kormia was mid-vomit. And against her better judgment, Kormia penciled her in. Not because she needed the money. But because she neededanswers.

Kormia hadn’t been able to get in touch with her since all that shit went down with Cleo, and something Cleo said that night kept replaying in her head like a scratched CD:“Your homegirl Jamillah should’ve told you what I did to her friend.”That sentence had been looping in her brain for weeks. And it didn’t help that Jamila had changed her number…again. Kormia tried to track her down online, but Jamillah had stopped posting on socials weeks ago. Which honestly, didn’t alarm her the way it probably should’ve. Jamillah changed her numberevery other month, and her disappearing from socials usually meant one of two things. Either she met another baller… or she was insome shit.

Jamillah and Kormia had been friends since elementary school.Before nails. Before niggas. And before Jamillah became@bankOn_millie.Their bond ran deeper than surface-level pretty girl loyalty. Jamillah grew up fast, and not because she wanted to—but because she had to.

Her foster mother, Cynthia, was the type of woman who smiled wide in public and raised hell in private.Both Jamillah and her sister Journei caught hell in that house, but Jamila got it worse. Because she was pretty. Pretty enough to attract attention. Pretty enough to make grown men look twice. And pretty enough to make Cynthia resent her. Cynthia had once been anIt girl.The kind who once commanded attention. Lived a life of luxury and floated through rooms like she owned them. But years of partying, drinking, and chasing no-good men dulled her shine. And when she couldn’t pull them theold-fashionedway anymore… she learned how to weaponizeproximity.Sometimes, that proximity was her teenage daughter, whether Jamillah wanted to or not. Growing up like that? Rewired Jamillah.

So instead of staying a victim… Jamilaadjusted.While the rest of the hood saw a fast little girl, Kormia knew what it really was, Jamila wasunprotected. So, she sharpened herself. Figured out how to read the room and learned early on, beauty wasn’t just something you possessed. It was something youwielded. That lesson followed her straight into adulthood. Jamillah didn’t just chase men. Sheassessedthem. Measured what they could provide. Took what she could. And when it ran dry… shedisappeared.To outsiders, it looked calculated.To Jamillah, it was survival.Which was why Kormia had always given her a little more grace than she deserved.

Still…Kormia wasn’t blind.She knew Jamillah could be a grimy ass bitch. Especially when it came to men with money.Jamillah switched friend groups like panties. Burned bridges and rebuilt them like nothing happened.But when it came to Kormia? Jamillah always circled back and always found a way to smooth shit over. But once Tay came in the picture, it wasn’t as easy to cut Jamillah off. Which is why five o’clock felt heavier than it should’ve. Because this wasn’t just a nail appointment. This wasanswers.

Jamillah pulled up a few hours later, in an all-black Audi truck that looked like it came with its own security detail. She stepped out the passenger side while a fine, football-player-looking nigga climbed out the driver’s seat. A few of his squad followed behind him, laughing, straightening jackets, moving like they belonged somewhere important. But that wasn’t what caught Kormia’s eye. What caught her eye was how damn near the whole entourage made a beeline straight to Newdy’s flower shop. Kormia clocked it immediately… then filed it in the back of her mind. Technically, she was closed, so she didn’t bother with the front entrance. Instead, she went to the side door and cracked it open.

“Over here, heffa,” she whisper-yelled. Jamillah turned toward her, looking like she’d stepped straight off a ’90s music video set. Jamillah was a bad bitch through and through. You could strip her of every designer piece she’d ever own, and she’d still pull a baller in a paper bag. She was naturally beautiful, which set her apart from the Instagram aesthetic baddies she surrounded herself with. Her skin carried a soft, golden warmth that complemented her butterscotch complexion, and her hazel eyes were always scoping and scanning, reading the room the second she stepped in it.

Jamillah’s body wastea. And that was because sheactuallyworked out. She did yoga, Pilates, and Soul Cyclereligiously.Her waist was snatched, and she had a round, plump natural ass. Now the breast? They were faker than a four-dollar bill. And so were the porcelain veneers she flew to Turkey for. But even with the new enhancements? Jamillah was drop dead gorgeous and she knew it.

Today she wore a Jean Paul Gaultier denim bodysuit, that hugged every curve like it was made for her, a vintage gold Dior chain belt cinched at the waist, and Balenciaga over-the-knee boots stretching her legs out for days. Her hair was pressed bone straight in a forty-inch bust-down middle part, paired with a light beat that sat clean on her face. Her jewelry was simple, just a gold Van Cleef bracelet with matching earrings. Kormia hadn’t seen Jamillah in person in months and seeing her now hit different. Kormia had a bunch of questions and Jamillahhatedbeing questioned. Nonetheless here they were.

“Text me when you finished, bae,” Jamillah called casually over her shoulder, glancing back at the big fine football nigga staring at her like she was his salvation. “Who that?” Kormia asked, narrowing her eyes as Jamillah stepped inside. “Not that it’s your business,” Jamillah said with a grin.

“But he plays for the Steelers.”

“Why he over there though?” Kormia asked, motioning toward the flower shop.

“The same reason everybody else go over there,” Jamila replied, pulling her vape from her bag.

“For flowers?” Kormia deadpanned. Jamila laughed, smoke slipping past her glossed lips.

“No, dummy. To check in.” She took another pull. “Niggas can’t just come in town without a blessing from the florist. You know that.”

Kormia didn’t know that, but she also didn’t care enough to dig, so she changed the subject.

“How you know I was here, anyway?” she asked, gathering her files and polish. Jamila paused.

“I stopped by your condo first.” Kormia’s jaw tightened. “And?”

“And your daddy told me you was probably at your shop.” Jamila’s tone shifted.

“Mia… why he still there?”

“Look. It’s temporary,” Kormia responded as a small silence settled between them.

“Well, how long is temporary? Because by my count, his ass been there at least eight months.” Jamila stepped further into the shop, and Kormia followed her line of sight to the futon, the folded blanket, and the makeshift bedroom she’d created. “Mia…” Jamila said as their eyes met.

“Look, it ain’t that deep,” Kormia muttered, grabbing a disinfectant wipe and cleaning a surface that didn’t need cleaning. “Don’t tell me you been living in your shop.”

“It’s just temporary.”

“Nine months ain’t no damn temporary.

“The words landed heavy, and before Kormia knew it, tears started falling.

“Look, I can’t get him to leave,” she admitted.